


Inevitable

by ThePsuedonym



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fire, Gen, How do I tag?, I Don't Even Know, Implied Violence, Non-Canonical Character Death, Tragedy, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-23 05:18:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4864547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePsuedonym/pseuds/ThePsuedonym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He smiled at her and she felt tears well up in her eyes. “It's alright, Lieutenant,” he groaned, that damned smirk still on his face. “I always knew I was going to die. It just happened a little sooner than I thought, that's all.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Poetic death without the poetic justice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inevitable

–

 

_The sky was clear; a bright, unblemished blue, save for the silhouettes of the buildings on the far horizon, those high-reaching black arches of rock sweeping against the low sandy dunes of the desert in a picturesque setting. He looked down on it all, the face of an impassive – if cruel – god. His lips creased into a frown and he threw one hand out, more flourish than action; all that was needed to begin was the movement of finger upon thumb._

_Sparked by the immeasurable chafe, the friction built and the heat sparked, warming the glove by the barest of degrees. The crimson array glowed; heat multiplied and lashed outwards, taking the form of a thin line that bent and turned at perfect ninety and forty-five degree angles as it reached out for its target. Growing impatient, surging with energy, the streak hissed and burned before exploding – taking apart the water surrounding it, decomposing, reconstructing – as hydrogen re-bonded with oxygen in a show of power._

_Smoke stuttered into the sky as the first screams of the day rose into the air, the smell of burning flesh wafting with a near arrogant slowness._

 

_–_

 

“Colonel.”

She paused, waiting for a response.

“ _Colonel_.”

A sigh; the click of the safety being released; the warning shot of the gun before it had fired its _true_ warning shot; and like the bullet that would undoubtedly fly past his ear, projected by his blonde lieutenant's gun, Roy instinctively shot to his feet, blinking dazedly while drained excuses stuttered from his lips.

“I'm awake, I'm up,” he reassured, blearily looking around.

Slowly, his sleep-filled eyes focused on the stoic woman; seeing the look on her face, he gracelessly dropped back into his seat, rubbing at his face with the heels of his hands. He knew her well enough that when she got _that_ look, she wasn't going to shoot again. Not soon, at the very least. Groaning to himself as he picked up a pen, he diligently – if reluctantly – returned to his paperwork under his adjutant's acute attention. Shaking her head, Hawkeye left the office, but not without one last look back at her superior.

Already, his head had begun to dip down towards the desk, allowing her to catch a glimpse of his eyes; like nearly-extinguished fires, they were hazy with exhaustion. She bit her lip and shut the door, leaving him to the terrors that danced on the edges of consciousness.

 

–

 

“Another murder,” Roy murmured, setting down the newspaper, ensuring it did not make contact with any official papers. The public rags had far too much ink set into the pages, and merely _touching_ them ensured stained fingers for the rest of the day. Grimacing at the evidential assortment of black and blue on his once-snowy gloves, the Flame exchanged them for a clean set. “Do you have any leads, Maes?”

Matching his friend's expression, the bespectacled man sullenly flicked at one end of the paper.

“None. It doesn't match the M.O. of any other killers we have, and besides the bodies, there's been no evidence at any of the crime scenes. Hell, all that we _do_ know is that they've been killed using alchemy, but that's just about it.” Running a hand through his close-cropped hair, the Intelligence officer snuck a look at the Colonel. “Maybe we could ask Edward...”

“No.”

Hughes pouted and sighed but didn't push the matter; it was a song and dance they had gone through before, one neither of them had the heart to push. By then it was simply routine, something expected of them both. All that ever changed between them was the subject.

“We're going to need something soon, Roy,” he warned. “Scar isn't the only one targeting State Alchemists anymore, and we're no nearer catching this bastard than we are him.”

The Flame waved goodbye without looking up from his work. It was nothing new to him. He knew the facts as well as Maes, perhaps even better; he and his subordinate were at risk of attack. Not him.

 

–

 

Pulling on his gloves, Roy strode up the walk, eyes darting left and right, inspecting everything about the face of the house. A noise from the right startled him and he raised his hand, sparks flying as he rubbed his fingers together, no less than five pistols rising up in unison. Havoc stood stock still, hands raised in surrender as the weapons faced him.

“I stepped on a stick,” he squeaked by way of explanation.

Roy lowered his hand and looked away, back to the building. With a quick motion, they stepped forward, securing the perimeter.

 

–

 

The sound of crickets chirping and frogs croaking filled the night, while the early summer perfume permeated the air. Above, the stars shone, small pinpricks of light that twinkled without a care in the world. All was calm until the gunshot rang out, a crack of sound that shocked everything into a dead silence. As it faded into the dark, and the pent-up breath of every living being was held with fear, a cry cut into the tension.

_“Colonel!”_

 

–

 

He flinched at the wail but didn't stop running through the concrete jungle, heart pounding in his ears – he was Roy _fucking_ Mustang, why the hell was he running? He was the freaking _Flame Alchemist_ , the fucking _Hero of Ishbal_ (and how he hated that title) for fuck's sake! – and the building crashed apart behind him, accompanied by several loud cries, the sound reminding him exactly _why_ he was running for his life, State Alchemist or not.

Rounding a corner, one hand reached out, fingers desperately scrabbling at the brick edge as he ignored the burning pain that radiated from his injured shoulder. Using the building as a brace, he pivoted around and slammed his side into the stone wall, one arm reaching out and taking most of the force. He hissed as cloth and tissue tore along the belly of his forearm, blood already spitting out from the newly inflicted wounds, staining the limestone with specks of crimson.

Resting one hand on his chest, he took several deep breaths, turning so his back rested against the newly-bloodied wall. He could feel the anxiety of his heart even as he tried to calm himself, even hear it despite his strained attempts to focus on listening for the clack of measured steps on the concrete.

There– he heard the echoing clicks stride ahead of their owner and he felt a spark of indecision kindle itself in his chest – should he run? Did they know where he was? – and the panic nearly overtook him, heart painfully loud and he wondered if they could hear it trying to rip itself out of his chest.

The sounds of his team calling his name back where he recognized the house to be steeled his decision. He shrank away from the mouth of the alley, hoping the uniform was more than sufficient to hide his features in the shadows; he had to be alive for his team. Not for himself, but for them.

So he would be a rat, forced to hide away in order to save itself. Despite himself, a warped grin worked its way onto his features. He had been called many things in his lifetime, but a rat? That was a new one.

 

–

 

The body landed on top of his, knocking them both to the ground. Roy grunted as his chin scraped against the ground, stinging as they slid over several large rocks and the dirt flew into the new injury and into his mouth. His shoulder burned with the fall, the injury crying out at its mistreatment. Spitting out the dull taste of earth, he struggled as the tackler stood, one hand pressed into his wrists, which had been caught between the two of them.

Cockily, the man pulled the gloves off his hands, heavily sitting on top of the alchemist. Not only was the position undignified, but he was also heavy enough that Roy couldn't simply throw the man off of him, not unless he had leverage; his injuries did nothing to aid him, either. With his hands behind his back, elbows twisted painfully by his sides, there was little hope for an immediate escape.

 

–

 

Glaring upwards, he smoothed his features into a mocking smile, earning himself another punch in the jaw. He rolled with the blow but turned his head slightly, hoping to at least break the bastard's knuckles. No such luck, of course; all that he earned was an aching face. The other rubbed at his hands, popping the first joints of his fingers back into place as he sneered at the colonel.

Mustang spat at the man's feet, displeased by the red stain that stood out in the thick glob. Seemed as though he had been hit harder than he initially believed.

“I have the perfect idea.”

A pregnant pause; contemplating, deciding, dancing around the issue before tackling it head on.

“Would it not be an appreciable work of irony if the Flame Alchemist had been killed by the very same element he proclaimed unparalleled mastery over? It would be almost... _poetic_. A kind of divine justice, if you would; some would say it was sent down by Ishvala himself.”

Roy laughed, feeling more blood pooling in his throat. He spat the liquid out before grinning at the man; with teeth stained scarlet, the sight was rather unnerving.

“I'm sorry to disappoint, but I don't believe in any god.”

Another pause, considering the new development.

“Then perhaps you believe in fate.”

The Flame made a disbelieving noise that went ignored.

“I do. And I believe that it is _your_ fate to be killed with your closest, greatest weapons, Colonel Mustang. In order to truly appreciate something, you must devote yourself wholly to it.

“And what greater show of loyalty is there than to lay down your life in its name?”

 

–

 

Fluttering moths of fire lazily rose into the air, dimly illuminating the darkness that surrounded them. The insects sighed as they rode the dead wind, swirling and dancing gracefully before exhaling their life into a final, ever-burning light, dimming into white flakes that disintegrated before his eyes. Up above, the nighttime stars mimicked the pale imitations, flickering before shining brighter than before, unlike the short-lived winks of life that wilted before his very eyes.

Behind him, the wood _popped_ and _snapped_ , timbers cracking as they weakened, caving in on themselves, sending living flames outwards and upwards with each stage of fiery degeneration the wood underwent. He could feel the heat behind him, warming the heavy military uniform and leaving him sweltering under the thick layers. He was used to it, though; he had to be.

Had to be, didn't he? Yeah. Had to be.

Slumping against the wooden post, he looked up, catching sight of the spinning embers moving against the expanse of night. He tried to reach out to touch one – hold it, cup it, keep it safe – but the ropes tugged and burned against his skin, rubbing his wrist raw. Hissing at the sting, he struggled a bit before giving up, settling instead for watching the fireflies twinkle above him, the only witnesses to the last moments of his life.

 

–

 

_He smiled at her and she felt tears well up in her eyes. “It's alright, Lieutenant,” he groaned, that damned smirk still on his face. “I always knew I was going to die. It just happened a little sooner than I thought, that's all.”_

 

–

 

Inevitable

 

–

 

_She held him in her hands, pressing his body to hers, reinforcing the truth that it all screamed to her: this was real. She had found him. And, dead or alive, she was going to bring him back._

 

–

 

Riza steeled herself and shut the door, glimpsing her superior one last time before resigning him to his fate. She knew as well as anyone else in the office that he was going to fall back asleep soon after she left, but the entire office had received an influx of paperwork with the murder of yet another State Alchemist, though they could easily tell it was not Scar's work this time.

Scar would deconstruct the alchemist, usually parts of the head or chest; the men and women they found were simply dead. No wounds, no scars, not even the slightest traces of poison. All that they could see here was that the person had died what appeared to be a completely natural death, their bodies giving up on life.

Naturally, they believed alchemy to be responsible.

For Riza, the deaths were simply that. The death of another man or woman that could have been prevented. It was that way for many, in fact; for the State Alchemists, it was mere luck that it hadn't been them that had been killed. And yet, to Roy, it was Ishval all over again, running him ragged until he dropped from exhaustion, only to face the demons in his nightmares.

The blonde shuddered in sympathy before returning to her seat. All that she could do was try to keep his mind off the past for as long as she could.

 

–

 

While it was Colonel Mustang that was the the superior officer, it was often Riza who was left to keep the office in order and on task.

When First Lieutenant Havoc pulled out a cigarette and tried to smoke, it was she that reminded him it was against conduct. When Second Lieutenant Breda became too engrossed in the betting books, it was she that put him back at his desk with a pen in hand.

When Warrant Officer Falman, as rare as the occurrence was, forgot himself within his research for other departments, it was she who reminded him to take care of himself. When Sergeant Major Fuery distracted the office with his latest stray, begging that someone take it in, it was she that would reprimand the youngest officer and take the animal off his hands before bringing it to a friend for care.

It would make sense, then, that if the Colonel was ever to be sent out of the office, for work, illness or – heaven forbid – death, Second Lieutenant Hawkeye would be placed in charge of the unit until someone of appropriate rank would be appointed over them; unless one of the team found themselves the recipient of a promotion, which was rather unlikely.

So while Mustang struggled through the newest case, it was Riza that saw to the day-to-day operations.

 

–

 

Riza checked her pistol again, sliding the magazine out of the chamber and pressing the top-most bullet down. It slid back up as the pressure was released, catching on the edges of its container. Satisfied, she reinserted the metal strip, cocked the hammer, and set it to the 'safe' setting. The rest of her ammunition was heavy in her pockets, her other gun resting snug in its holster.

An anonymous tip had led them to the murderers' hideout, and only a few hours' watch had confirmed the information. Both the Colonel and Lieutenant agreed that there was likely an ambush awaiting them in that building, the oh-so normal looking house, with its white picket fence and snowy shutters on the edge of the city, but it was a lead that couldn't be passed up.

She hoped that it wasn't something they would come to regret.

 

–

 

The loud growl of exploding gunpowder rang through the air and Riza started. Her head snapped up and her heart sped like a rabbit fleeing a hunter's dogs; the others ignored her, likely placing her reaction as the result of raw-rubbed nerves. Riza, on the other hand, had come to a terrible conclusion.

No one should have fired their guns. They were under strict orders from men even higher than the Colonel to apprehend and capture, not kill. Unless the situation was dire, and no other option was left to them, they were _not to fire their weapons_.

She turned her head and saw Jean beside her, chewing on an unlit cigarette. She had caught onto her uneasiness, looking as disturbed as she.

“Second Lieutenant,” she said, unable to entirely hide the strain in her voice, “where's the Colonel?”

 

–

 

One month passed with no luck.

 

–

 

Two months gone, with no leads.

 

–

 

Riza stood straight and tall, hands tightly clasped behind her back. Her amber gaze unflinchingly met the Führer's navy one. Despite his reputation for having a startlingly easygoing manner, and the whispers of unusual behavior – sneaking away from his guards to pass out melons was her personal favorite – he was now stoic before her, looking ancient beneath the heavy title of leader of Amestris, and all that came with it.

“First Lieutenant,” he sighed, releasing his hands from the tight clasp they had been seated in, “it has come to my attention that your former commanding officer has been missing for three months now. Is your team any closer to locating him since the last time we spoke?”

Her mouth was dry, and her throat almost refused to form the words she desperately wished not to say: “No, sir.”

Though he did not change in demeanor, she thought she could detect disappointment in his bearing; and she hoped it was not directed towards her. “A shame,” he continued. “A shame to lose both a great soldier and alchemist.”

“Yes sir,” she agreed, struggling to decide whether to say more. “Some would say less flattering words, but it’s heartening to hear that you value the Colonel, sir.”

He dipped his head in acknowledgment but chose not to comment on her words. “You are aware, Lieutenant, that as the probation period passes today that Colonel Mustang will be listed as killed in action?”

“I am, sir.” Her heart, already shattered, was ground to dust with her next sentence: “You will be reassigning the team, due to the closure of the investigation?”

“Of course not.” Riza, confused, waited. She was rewarded. “Your men are effective as they are. I see no reason to turn them in to anyone else.”

 _Your men?_ she wondered, and voiced her thoughts to him.

“I suppose congratulations are in order, then, for your promotion to Lieutenant Colonel. Supply will send you the proper rankings for a woman of your position.

“Dismissed.”

 

–

 

Although the team's words were warm, her insides were cold. It felt _wrong_ to be in charge of the others, in this way. The Colonel (purposefully omitting the word _former_ ; he couldn't be – it made her sick to even _think_ of it) may have put her in charge of the office while he was overtaken with paperwork, which was often, but having official rank over the men? It was too much.

Riza found herself searching for some kind of escape. Anything, really, to help her overcome the feeling of unreality that had descended upon her. Bars were never really her thing, not to mention that alcohol clouded both the mind and the senses, things that she could not afford. Immersing herself in her work was both unhealthy and ineffective; there was never enough to keep her busy for long, since most of the requisitions had been delegated to other offices, to make up for the loss of one of the brass. Her guns were already pristine – and if she oiled them anymore, as Havoc warned her, they would “slip right out of her hands the next time she drew it.”

With nothing else left for her, Riza walked the streets of Central at night, hoping that there might be some answer waiting for her in the darkened roads, if only she looked hard enough for them. Nothing good had come of her wanderings yet, but she felt that night would be different.

It was when she had found herself in the middle of the residential district that she smelled the smoke.

Riza feared she was too late.

 

–

 _She flinched away from the sound of the explosion; no matter how many times she heard the sound of the alchemy,_ felt _the heat of the fire, she didn't believe she would ever quite adapt to the destructive use of her father's life work. Riza did not blame Roy for his choices – he had set out to better the world by joining the State Alchemist program, not savagely commit murder, participate in the_ genocide _of an entire race – but she couldn't help but feel a little more despair slip into her soul with each sighting of the flickering tongues of flame._

 

–


End file.
